


Indecision 2020

by Monsterunderkilt



Series: The Manse [28]
Category: Actor RPF, Celebrities - Fandom, RPF - Fandom, Real Person Fanfic - Fandom, Real Person Fiction
Genre: F/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:14:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27367876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monsterunderkilt/pseuds/Monsterunderkilt
Summary: The Brits and the Americans join forces to drink the election night away
Series: The Manse [28]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1209447
Kudos: 1





	Indecision 2020

As I come down the foyer stairs, I notice the faint sound of calm chamber music. I check my watch and hurry down the steps and scurry to the front parlour, where I see all the Brits settled into various corners, each silently reading. Tilda is reclined on a chaise with a novel, Alan is sunk into a brown leather armchair with a newspaper, Ben has folded his legs up Indian-style on one side of a sofa, highlighting a sheaf of script pages. Kenneth is snoozing in my second Eames by the window, that Harold Bloom doorstop open in his lap.

I open my mouth to warn them of the oncoming storm, but just then, the doorbell rings. They all look up at me—even Ken has roused from his micro nap—and stare at me quizzically. I shrug and spin on my heel, seeing Stephen rush down the foyer stairs, racing me to the door.

“They’re here they’re here they’re here!” Stephen rambles as he leaps down the last few steps.

I slide between him and the door, barricading it momentarily. “How many did you invite?” I ask.

“Just a few of the guys. I swear you’ll approve.”

“Oh no, Tyrone, I’ve seen how often your idea of ‘a few friends’ blows up into a veritable Woodstock. I know we’re outnumbered by Anglos around here, but I don’t need a horde of Americans drinking and laughing and/or crying tonight.”

Stephen smiles and flutters his eyelashes at me sweetly. “Chicken biscuit, trust me on this one.”

I cross my arms over my chest, but I step aside so he can swing the door open. My heart plotzes at the sight before me.

“Stephen! Caity! My dearest people!” Jon says, grinning like sunshine itself. “I hope you don’t mind I brought the other John.”

“Madam, Stephen, it’s been too long!” John says with a bow. “I’ll be your butler again if you want. I’m just glad to get out of that empty void that has been the set of my show all year.”

I feel tears spritz from my eyes, I am so thrilled to see them. Despite my tiny arms, I gather them into a triple hug, kissing their cheeks multiple times. “Jon! Joliver! My men! Please, come inside, welcome home.”

Stephen winks at me as we all herd ourselves into the living room, where we will be camping out for the remainder of the evening... and possibly the week or the month depending on how apocalyptic it gets outside. I already have a nice table full of chips, nuts, cheeses, and fruits for us to start off the night, accompanied by Cheetos, chocolates, and booze if it gets too scary ad we need sweet medicine. We all slump back into the sofa and take a breath as I switch on the TV. “Let the blood sports begin,”I say.

John leans forward giddily and grabs some snacks. “Please school me in the ways of how proper Americans participate in election night festivities.”

“This is John’s first presidential election in which he’s been allowed to vote,” Jon announces proudly, patting John on the back before he gets up to go to the kitchen. “Welcome to the fold, my friend!”

“Wait, why is this Brummie voting for our president?” Stephen asks suspiciously.

“He just became a US citizen in December, Stephen,” I say, hugging John as tightly as possible. “Thank you for joining us tonight, Joliver. That evens up the number with the Brits under the roof.”

“Wait, what others have you got?” John asks, mouth full of honey roasted nuts.

“They’re all in here!” Alan yells over his shoulder as he appears from the hallway.

“What is going on?” Tilda asks as she steps forward to stand beside him. “Some kind of sporting event?”

Ben leans against the wall and scratches his head. “It’s election night, is it not?”

John swallows hard, then his jaw drops as he recognises the awesomeness before him. “Wow, no wonder you never leave the Manse. With this much talent, who even needs a TV?”

Just then, Sir Ken squeezes between Alan and Tilda. He stretches and yawns as he walks around the sofa toward me. “I’m calling it a night, sweetheart,” he says, leaning down to give me his customary goodnight kiss. “I’m too old for this time change shite anyway. Best of luck to your country.”

I kiss Ken back and give his bum a little pat as he heads out of the room. “Alright, Sir, see you in the morning.” I turn to John, who looks as if he’s blown a gasket.

“Kenneth Branagh just kissed you goodnight,” he whispers, as if the fact will evaporate if spoken too loudly. 

I nod and grab a few grapes and pop one in my mouth.

“What are they all _doing_ here?” John asks, completely bemused.

“They help me with my Shakespeare homework. And yoga.”

“And they’re snogging the snot out of each other,” Stephen adds, munching on Triscuits.

Jon comes back, having grabbed a can of beer out of the fridge. He ceremoniously cracks it open before sitting down next to me. “John, you should interview Sir Ken,” he says, offering me a sip, which I gladly take.

John shakes his head. “Oh, no, I was never that good at interviewing, I couldn’t.”

“Oh but he loves to chat,” Stephen says. “Just ask a simple question and he’ll give you a life story about accidentally catching a glimpse of Dame Judi Dench’s fanny.”

Alan puts his hands on his hips and stands agape. “Ken saw Judi’s fanny?”

“It was backstage of _The Winter’s Tale_ a few years back,” Stephen answers. “She just tossed off her robe and she wasn’t wearing a bottom half.”

Ben giggles. “Cheeky bastard!”

“Boys, enough about fannies,” Tilda says with a wave of her hand. “Is everyone going to behave tonight?”

“No, ma’am,” Stephen says.

Jon holds up a finger. “In fact, it might get downright terrifying. This country could turn into a banana republic overnight. There’s no way to tell at this point.”

“Well then we all might as well start with a stiff one straight away,” Tilda says, grabbing the bottle of Woodford from the bar. “Who needs a tipple?”

Every hand shoots up.


End file.
